


A Dangerous Angel

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cemetery, Cold, Fruitcake, M/M, Victorian, Whiskey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Yet again, poor Watson is out in the cold instead of sitting cozily at Baker Street.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 27
Kudos: 80





	A Dangerous Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Опасный ангел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636061) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Hi, again. The good news is, I managed to get three prompts into this little piece. Which means we are cruising towards the end of Advent. I am keen to get back to my Virtual Postcard Tales! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. Ooh, the prompts: Angel, Darkness, Fruitcake.

Love is a dangerous angel.

-Block, F. L.

Holmes has a possibly morbid fascination with cemeteries.

He would deny that accusation, of course, and maintain that it is only the peace and quiet to be found when one wandered amongst the tombstones which appealed to him. And I do understand that a mind such as his must seek respite occasionally or risk complete collapse. I have seen that happen too often, so sometimes we walked through cemeteries. At the very least, the environs reminded one of his own mortality which is never a bad thing, in my opinion.

All that being said, I was less than delighted to find myself huddled in Highgate Cemetery on a cold December night, rather than being tucked up in our rooms with a fire, a whiskey, and the both of us wrapped in our warmest dressing gowns. Such evenings were always a particular favourite of mine. Perhaps Holmes might relate to me one of his cases from before we met. Or I could tell him of my adventures in Afghanistan, which always interested him.

That sounded delightful.

Spending hours sat on a cold wooden bench, beneath the kindly gaze of a stone angel that stood watch over the grave of one William Louis Hale, B1800 and D1841, was not especially delightful.

Holmes did not seem the least bothered by the cold or the darkness, which was diminished only by a pale winter moon. We could just see the entrance to the mausoleum that belonged to our client’s family. Old blood. Old money. And, as Holmes put it, all the eccentricities that so often featured in that milieu. I blamed too much inner breeding amongst the upper class.

Trust me when I say that the details of the case which found us lurking amongst the graves are entirely too dull to repeat here and that made me feel the cold even more. Briefly, I amused myself wondering what had snatched poor Hale from his life at only forty-one. But the possibilities were too numerous, so soon I found myself instead staring upwards at the marble angel, its surface stained and darkened with the years. “What are your thoughts on angels?” I asked Holmes idly.

It was a long moment before he responded, without looking my way. “Should I have any thoughts on the matter?” His tone was only mildly interested.

“Come, Holmes,” I chided him lightly. “Is there any subject upon which you do not have thoughts?”

He sighed, which I knew meant that he would answer my query, but only at great personal sacrifice. “There are some aspects of the mythology which are of mild interest.” He glanced upwards at the statue beneath which we were hidden. “In the common mind, angels are so often portrayed as females. Lovely females, as society defines that term.”

My gazed wandered upwards again as well. Beneath the dirt and the discolouration, the face was indeed lovely. Kind.

There was a sound from somewhere nearby in the blackness of the cemetery and we both stilled immediately. A moment later, however, a scruffy mutt ran past, chasing something we could not see. We relaxed and shared a bemused glance.

Holmes tightened the scarf around his neck against the increasing chill. Then he reached out and did the same for me. I did not mention it, but did give him a small smile. “In actuality, scripture is filled with male angels,” he continued as if there had been no interruption. “Raphael. Michael. Gabriel. Additionally, in both Greek and Latin, the word ‘angel’ is always used in the masculine form.”

It should not have surprised me that a man who professed no faith beyond his belief in rational scientific thought, could still speak knowledgeably on scripture. A distant memory came to mind. “When I was a child, our vicar spoke of angels as being genderless.”

“Ah, well, humans like to categorise things. To label them. It makes them feel safe. Male and female they can understand. So, a male angel serves when the need is for a sword of righteousness and a female one suits when the soul needs solace.”

I wondered if the soul of William Louis Hale was comforted by having that sweet-faced angel, of whom I was becoming rather fond, watching over him.

“The Hebrews put great store in the idea of Guardian Angels,” Holmes continued after a moment.

Again, my thoughts wandered backwards. “My mother shared that notion,” I said. “She always told me that I was being watched over by my own angel.”

“And did you believe her?” Holmes sounded sincerely curious.

Before I could form a response, the glow of an approaching lantern appeared and a large man in a hooded cloak could be seen making his way towards the mausoleum we were watching.

There was no need for words between us any longer; we each knew our role perfectly.

We moved silently, myself to the left and Holmes to the right.

His path was the more direct and so by the time I reached the entrance of the stone mausoleum, Oscar Biggins already had a rather fearsome blade at Holmes’ throat. Of course, my pistol was ready in my hand. [I know my role.] “Think carefully, Biggins,” I said tightly. “Your fate lies in your own hands.”

I could see the plodding train of his thoughts moving across his face and so I knew the very moment he made the wrong choice. My gaze met Holmes’ eyes and, in the next instant, his boot was moving, smashing onto the top of his captor’s foot. The knife slashed, but Holmes had already moved and so the blade moved harmlessly through the air.

My bullet, on the other hand, went directly into Biggins’ shoulder and he fell, loudly bewailing his pain and misfortune.

Holmes and I smiled at one another.

*

It was some hours later before we found ourselves tucked up in our warm bed on Baker Street. The admirable Mrs Hudson had prepared hot tea, cold beef sandwiches and thick slices of her special Christmas fruitcake. We ate and drank as a just reward for our labours, finishing the night with some excellent whiskey. We toasted one another, Mrs Hudson’s most excellent fruitcake and, for some reason, the Queen.

It is possible that we were a bit giddy.

But once we were in bed, all was peaceful. Holmes rolled to his side and placed his arm across my chest. “I am the most fortunate of men,” he said softly.

“Are you indeed?” My fingers moved slowly through his unrestrained curls and I felt that his words actually applied to me.

He shifted again, this time stretching out on top of me. The weight and warmth of his body were, as always, comforting.

I lifted my head enough to plant a kiss on his lips. They were slightly dry from our evening spent in the cold. “And why are you so fortunate?”

He waited until my gaze met his. “Because I am the man who has Dr John Hamish Watson as his own personal guardian angel.” He touched my cheek with exquisite tenderness. “My dangerous angel.”

And then he proceeded to worship me in a most satisfactory manner.

**


End file.
